


The Motorcycles Are A Metaphor

by meaninglessblah



Series: Gift Fics [8]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Mechanics, Alternate Universe - No Capes, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Handcuffs, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spreader Bars, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Tim's a mechanic, who's introduced to the handsome florist next door named Jason.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: Gift Fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960108
Comments: 23
Kudos: 286





	The Motorcycles Are A Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyThoughtfulWindow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyThoughtfulWindow/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for MyThoughtfulWindow! Hope you have a fantastic day, lovely <3

“And back here,” Roy’s voice filters into the workshop, “is where the magic happens.” 

Tim leans around the motorcycle he’s currently plugged into, tilting his laptop screen until he can see their guest. From back here, all he can see is a shock of black hair next to Roy’s burning orange, so he rolls his eyes and goes back to filling in code. 

“You build bikes?” the stranger - masculine and deep, with the hitch of a Park Row accent - asks. 

Roy makes a noncommittal noise as they approach, weaving around their multitude of projects with leisure. “We mostly modify. I work on engines; I take ‘em apart and get them running like new again. Or install modified engines in high-powered bikes.” 

“You must be good with your hands,” the man laughs. 

Tim frowns and lifts his fingers from the keys to peer over the sleek machine he’s working on. And then rises a few inches off his stool to get a better look. 

The guy is objectively handsome. A strong jawline, high cheekbones and an artfully crooked nose that speaks to a handful of altercations. Tim lets his gaze travel down the broad shoulders and slim waist to the frankly dazzling show of thighs. Now _those_ are some legs he could see wrapped around a motorcycle, going 100 down the freeway. 

The man shifts, his hands sliding into the pockets of his leather jacket as he gazes out over the array of half-assembled bikes that litter the workshop. Tim doesn’t fail to notice when his gaze lingers over some of their older, more classical models with a fond appreciation. 

A fan then, Tim deduces. He knows the type. The guy must do construction work with a build like that. Or maybe he’s a personal trainer. 

He snaps the lid of his laptop closed, and those bright blue-green eyes swivel to find him. 

“Who’s this?” Tim asks, though he’s less interested in the answer and more interested in why Roy feels the need to flaunt OHS standards. Notwithstanding what a nice figure their guests cuts in the middle of the workshop. 

Roy leans a hip against the workbench, retrieving a handful of candies from the hoards he has stashed around that Tim has long since given up on trying to root out. “He’s a florist,” he says, tossing one into his mouth and crunching loudly. 

Tim sincerely hopes his surprise doesn’t show on his face. He fumbles a save, returning, “Why is a florist in our ‘authorised employees only’ workshop, Roy?” as he pushes to his feet, sliding a palm over the bright red body paint of the motorcycle before him. 

“Must have missed the sign,” Roy replies without an ounce of shame. “Paint must be chipping.” 

The stranger, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. He crosses the floorspace riddled with mislaid tools to offer Tim his hand. “I’m Jason. The florist,” he adds, flashing those bright white teeth. They sort of punch the breath from Tim’s lungs. “I opened up shop next door, and thought I’d come and introduce myself, considering we’re neighbours now. Sorry to intrude.” 

“Tim,” he provides, and shakes the hand offered. His grip is warm and strong, and Tim tries not to linger on it. “And you’ve met Roy.” 

“Tim is our resident egghead,” Roy provides with a shit-eating grin. “Programs all the newer models. Amps up their horsepower.” 

“You’d be amazed what sort of limiters wholesalers put on bikes these days,” Tim murmurs, crossing around behind Jason to retrieve a screwdriver from the array on the wall. It gives him a very uninterrupted view of those thighs, and Tim can’t help but chase a thrill up his spine as he lingers on the sight. 

He pushes to his tiptoes to reach the backboard, and turns back to admire the svelte curve of that ass, blushing under Roy’s raised, knowing brows. Tim scowls and ducks back to the bike he’s working on. 

“Almost makes you miss the classics,” Jason says, with a nod towards one of the Harleys parked up in the back of the workshop. 

Tim shrugs and smears a grease-stained thumb across his forehead. “Sure, but you can’t go past a Ducati.” 

Jason gives him a non-committal shrug of his own. “I don’t know, I think I’d prefer the Harley.” At Tim’s indignant expression, he adds, “I just don’t get the appeal of the newer machines, I guess.” 

“What’s not to get?” 

Jason crosses his arms over his broad chest and smirks. “Please. Convince me then.” 

Tim tosses his hair back and slides a reverent palm down the sleek hot red body paint. “It’s efficient. It’s modernised. It knows what it wants, and it doesn’t bother with the song and dance. It delivers, every time.” 

“If you stroke that bike one more time,” Roy warns, throwing a handful of pop rocks into his mouth, “you’re practically going to be making love to it. At this point it’s just obscene.” 

Tim scowls and flips him a choice finger. “It’s a masterpiece of modern engineering.” 

“Sure,” Jason interjects, drawing the mechanic’s attention back up to him. “But where’s the passion? The romance? Where’s the wooing and affection? Where’s the substance?” 

Roy smacks his lips loudly, though neither of them bother to look in his direction when he croons, low and teasing, “That’s gay.” 

“Shut up,” they both answer. 

“A bike’s gotta have elegance,” Jason continues, as if uninterrupted, and gestures to the Harley. “You can’t beat a classic.” 

Tim arches a brow. “You can,” he answers, and pats the Ducati. “Several times over, in fact, and with much, much more horsepower.” 

“It’s not how much horsepower you have,” Roy chimes in, “but what you-” 

“ _Shut up._ ” 

Roy snickers and bends to retrieve a wrench by his foot, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that there’s a reason why everyone looks back to the classics as a starting point,” Jason insists with a shrug. “They’re a beautiful vehicle. The original designers - they understood romance.” 

“Romance,” Tim repeats derisively, and pushes to his feet to impress all of his five foot nothing height on the giant before him. “Is tedious, and unnecessary. I don’t want my bike to _woo_ me. I want it to give me what I want, the split second I ask for it. I want _reliability._ ” 

“Can’t be reliable forever. Everything wears down.” 

Tim cocks his head. “Can’t be romantic forever either. Honeymoon’s gotta end sometime. Why pretend it won’t? Why not just skip the foreplay and get what we both came here for, hmm?” 

Jason barks an exasperated laugh, and shuffles his arms across his chest. “Because _some_ of us like something to put in the effort, to show that we’re worth being romanced. Some of us like a little more _substance,_ something a little nicer than some wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.” 

“Then you’re immature.” 

Jason’s brow crooks. “And being afraid of commitment isn’t immature?” 

Tim shrugs. “I’m not afraid of commitment. If anything, I’m overeager to get to the point. I don’t see why people have to insist on all the fuckaround when we both know how it’s going to end.” 

“Makes the end easier to get over when it’s a little less than satisfactory, right?” 

“Now who’s being immature.” 

“I’m just saying,” Jason says, and lifts his hands in a surrender, “that you could learn something from the classics. Passion is worth waiting for, sometimes.” 

“Passion is overrated,” Tim answers, and yanks a rag from the chassis to scrub his knuckles with. “Give me power and perfection any day of the week.” 

“If control’s your thing, sure. Sometimes it’s more fun to give up control though. More rewarding.” 

“You want to know what I think?” Roy intones. 

“No,” Tim replies immediately, deadpan. 

“ _I_ think,” Roy crusades, “that it doesn’t matter what your body paint looks like on the outside; if your engine’s shit, so are you.” 

“A modern philosopher,” Jason praises, brows lifted, and unwinds his arms to swipe his palms over his thighs. Tim can’t help but drop his gaze to follow their swing. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty more of each other from now on.” 

“I’m sure,” Tim replies dryly, meeting that grin with a tight-lipped smirk. 

Jason nods and backtracks towards the shopfront, weaving around mechanical debris with ease. “Come see me if you ever want any lessons in passion,” Jason offers, his brows jumping suggestively, and it cracks through Tim’s wry resolve. 

“Come talk to me if you want to go for a quick ride,” he calls back, and something warms in his chest at the peal of laughter that filters back through the door that swings closed behind him. 

* * *

**_A Few Hundred Miles Later_ **

* * *

Tim exhales and wrings his hands through the cuffs again, listening to the metal chime dully on the newly polished chrome handlebars. He can smell the oil he worked into the leather seat from earlier, wafting up to where his temple is pressed against the dark upholstery. 

He hums, and grinds another inch down the leather just to suck in a sharp breath at the friction on his bare cock. 

Expectedly, a hand winds around his hip to grip him tightly, but Tim still whines at the contact. Lifts his head an inch even if the blindfold eradicates any hope he had of seeing his cruel tormentor. 

“Hold still,” a hot, amused voice murmurs against the shell of his ear, and Tim twists to chase that heat even as he feels the man pull away. His cuffs bring him up short, dragging another reticent groan from his chest, and a soft breath of laughter sounds above and behind him. 

The hand parts from his member, that large palm returning to press down against the meat of his hip, pin him tightly to the seat of the motorcycle until Tim can’t even twitch. He sighs and slumps against the leather again, impatient. 

“Hard to do when you’ve got me strung out like this,” Tim returns, straining for an indication of where the man is exactly. He’s being unnervingly quiet, and blind as he is, Tim can’t help but chase any sliver of information as the man bustles about him silently. 

“This,” Jason reminds him, around a toothy grin, and strokes a thumb over the dimples of his lower back, “was _your_ idea.” 

His other hand sweeps over the curve of Tim’s ass, spread as it is over the bike, and he draws in a sharp breath at the contact when one of those large thumbs cants over to delve between his cheeks. Jason hums and strokes his thumb over the flat head of the plug there, making Tim push to his tiptoes in anticipation. 

He only gets a half-step forward before the cuffs strapped tight around his ankles draw him up short, and Tim grunts in frustration. Jason chuckles, the toes of his boots nudging at the spreader bar threaded through the spokes to have Tim shifting with a whine. 

“Got you right where I want you, baby,” he growls, teeth grazing up the shell of Tim’s ear, and Tim can’t hope to stifle the shiver that ricochets down his spine to meet Jason’s palms. 

“Jay, c’mon.” 

“Impatient,” Jason chastises, but Tim can tell he’s grinning. His digits curl around the base of the plug, tugging it back against Tim’s rim a few times to have him squirming around the feeling. When he pushes it back in, inexorably slow in a way that makes Tim’s toes curl against the concrete, he can feel the squelch of lube deep inside him. 

“I need it,” he breathes, lifting his head to search for Jason’s skin, needing to taste his heat. “Jay, please.” 

Lips press against the back of his neck, tracking down Tim’s bare spine to suck on every ridge of vertebrae, unbearably slow and sensual. Those fingers don’t stop, grinding the plug up inside him with every shift, until there’s a rhythm to it; lips and fingers moving in tandem to have Tim panting into the leather and pulling tight against his bonds. 

“I get it,” Tim moans, and gasps when teeth close around one of his vertebrae. “Passion and romance and _whatever._ Get inside me, Jay.” 

Those fingers part from the plug, warm palms lifting to fondle the globes of his ass, to make Tim groan and take a mouthful of leather between his teeth to vent his frustration. 

“I’m going to romance you good and proper, baby,” Jason promises, whispering the words into the dimples of Tim’s lower back. “And then I’ll stick around to show you a thing or two about _reliability._ ” 

“Fuck,” Tim whimpers, when one of those hands slips up to tug at the bead of his nipple, the other tilting Tim’s hips back into that neat arch for his lover. It falls to stroke his cock twice, three times, before parting again. 

Tim hears the sound of a zipper, and it draws his shoulder blades together, makes his hands clench into fists around the handlebars. He grinds his cock down against the leather, if only to present himself further. 

Tim feels the blunt nudge of Jason’s cock between his cheeks before he feels the scrape of denim against his skin. They both shove a groan from between his clenched teeth, make that heat coil tighter in his gut at the promise. Tim shifts again, the bar catching in the spokes as he shoves back towards the slide of Jason’s cock. 

“Please,” he whines, shuddering. “Please, Jay, please, please.” 

Jason exhales, heady and content, and his voice is gravelly when he asks, “What do you want, baby?” 

“Inside me, please, Jay,” Tim babbles. He needs him now, needs him to end his torment; suggesting he be pinned down on this bike was a great idea in theory, but Tim is sorely missing the opportunity to run his hands over Jason’s tendons as he sinks down on his cock now. “Need it, need you, please.” 

He feels Jason lean over him, feels the motorcycle rock slightly on its kickstand when Jason splays a palm up beside Tim’s head, large fingers wrapping tight around the handlebars. “If I didn’t know any better,” he says in a tone that binds Tim’s stomach into a knot, “I’d say you like this Harley more than your Ducati right now.” 

Tim grits his teeth, but doesn’t have to wrestle with his pride for much longer when Jason’s other hand spreads his cheeks and eases the plug from him. Tim’s jaw falls open as he withers into the leather, savouring every millimetre as he’s stretched open around the widest part of the plug - and then it’s popping free. 

He clenches down on nothing, the sensation foreign after having the toy inside him so long. He doesn’t have to ruminate in the wrongness of the feeling for long before two of Jason’s fingers are tugging at his hole, slipping inside to feel how stretched his is, how ready to take Jason’s cock. 

Tim grinds down with a breathy moan, rutting back when Jason withdraws his fingers. His chest clenches tight when he feels the head of Jason’s cock nudge against his hole, his hand wrapping over Tim’s hip to guide him back onto it. 

“Steady, baby,” Jason croons, the palm on Tim’s hips only serving to stop him from shoving back onto his length in desperation. The larger man shuffles forward in his straddle over the bike, settling his considerable weight deeper into the leather so he can take himself in hand and guide his cock into Tim’s waiting hole. “We’ve got all night, you and I. Plenty of time to explore the, ah, intricacies of passion.” 

Tim can hear exactly how Jason’s voice strangles on the last syllables, strained around the effort of easing the head of his cock into him; he has a front row seat, in fact, with Jason’s reverent lips pressed against the side of his neck, and his hips yanked back into the valley of Jason’s thighs. 

“You’re so full of shit,” Tim teases, grinding back just to ruminate in the _fullness_ of Jason. The man groans, a steadying palm layering over Tim’s lower back. “All this talk of romance and taking your time. Don’t lie. You want to get in me right _now-_!” 

Jason’s heavy hands curl around Tim’s hips, and it’s the only warning he gets before the latter man shifts forwards and drives home. Tim’s mouth drops open around the vowel, the forceful slide punching a breathless shout from his chest as he sinks around the whole of Jason, pinned as much by his hands as he is by the restraints. 

It’s a glorious feeling, to be at the mercy of Jason Todd. 

“You caught me,” Jason admits, just the barest bit breathless himself, and works a whine from Tim's throat when he grinds into him, deep and permeating. Filling Tim up with all of him. 

“Hypocrite,” Tim mutters victoriously, and arches when Jason pulls back an inch to slam home again. He sucks in an insufficient breath. “But I could use some of that passion right now.” 

“Still so demanding,” Jason chastises fondly, but Tim feels him shift his weight back onto the balls of his feet, nudging at the bar between Tim’s ankles as he leans forward over him. “Hold onto those bars for me, yeah, baby?” 

Tim’s groaned affirmation wraps itself up into a sharp plea when Jason pulls out and drives back in, spearing Tim back onto his cock as he fucks into him. It’s rough and hard, and Tim’s pinned to the leather, worked open on Jason’s length as he pounds him, and _God,_ it’s exactly the sort of relief he needed right now. 

He shoves to the tips of his toes, nails biting into the chrome finish as he cants back to meet Jason, a shout punching from his chest every time Jason’s hips slam home. It’s exhilarating and debased and the best damn fuck of Tim's life, he declares as he’s wound swiftly towards his approaching orgasm. 

Jason’s breath is hot and laboured on the back of his neck, teeth scraping skin as he squeezes down on Tim’s hipbones with bruising pressure, needing to be closer. Tim twists to find his lips, mewling for contact as Jason grunts and shifts. Reaches up to yank off the stifling blindfold, and Tim’s vision is filled with those gorgeous blue-green eyes. 

He clenches down on the sensation that rips through his chest, smothering his voice as Jason grinds into him and shouts his pleasure. Tim topples with him, that pressure snapping as he’s shoved over the precipice of his orgasm with a rush of sound in his ears and the sight of Jason as he whites out. 

Jason collapses forward onto him, his weight smothering Tim into the seat as they gasp down air and lean into one another’s warmth. Lips eventually find Tim’s shoulder, his neck, his jaw, to press between his lips, licking him open as Tim slumps boneless onto the motorcycle beneath them. 

“Love you, Tim,” Jason whispers reverently over his cheekbones, and Tim’s chest soars with the weightlessness of the feeling. 

“Love you too, Jay,” he answers, lifting his head to peck a kiss to Jason’s cheek. 

They stay like that for a few minutes, content to settle against one another as Jason threads fingers into his hair and mouths over the curve of Tim’s shoulder blade until he’s half-hard again. 

“So what do you think, baby?” Jason murmurs, and scrapes teeth down Tim’s back to have him caving beneath the sensation. “You wanna try for round two, or did you get your fill of ‘delivering first time, every time’?” 

Tim feels his lips curl into a grin as he rolls his shoulders and settles his weight back on his heels. “You’ve got a whole night to fuck me on this bike, and I’m gonna make sure we use every minute.” 

Jason smirks. “You got it, baby.” 

Across the workshop full of half-constructed engines and littered debris, the door to the storefront flies open to reveal a disheveled but cognizant Roy, who blinks owlishly at them for a few moments. There’s silence, as he seems to take in Tim’s very deliberate predicament and Jason’s unmistakeable posture, before those orange brows pull into a fiery scowl. 

“Is that my _fucking bike_?” 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
